


Being Good Enough.

by Veail



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Coco Locos Fluff Off, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 18:13:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17006664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veail/pseuds/Veail
Summary: Hector and Imelda have known each other for years. Years of hanging out at the river bank, just the two of them. Imelda loves her idiot with all her heart. Hector... sometimes he's as clear as crystal, and other times he's just as murky as the river water that flows through Santa Cecilia.A fic for the coco loco fluff off challenge.





	Being Good Enough.

Santa Cecilia, 1906

Imelda held fast to her papá’s hand as she walked by his side, matching three strides for every one of his. He was angry, but he always seemed to be whenever they went to the market. She didn’t understand what the people in the cantina meant when they shouted about a perfect match but it always made him grit his teeth and speed up. When they reached the large tree at the side of the road just before the bend that led to her home he stopped, as he always did, and picked her up. She smoothed her fingers over his brow, as she always did, and kissed that spot between his eyebrows that creased so much. 

“Imelda,” he said with a sigh, and she held onto him tightly. “You are happy, si?”

“Si, Papá,” She said, fixing her doll’s skirt so that it hung straight. She wanted for nothing. Her doll wanted for nothing either. She was a good girl for her parents and a good mamá to her little girl. Her name was Victoria now, she’d decided last night, Helena was boring. 

“Promise me…” He sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The children at the orphanage…” 

As young as she was, she knew he was only talking about one child. “Héctor?”

“Si, Héctor.” He pulled a face, like he did when he’d eaten the slice of lemon that Felipe had hidden in his sandwich that one time. “If he ever…he has friends enough, mija.”

She frowned. It wasn’t true. Héctor didn’t have friends, he didn’t even have parents. The other kids laughed at his big nose and ears, making fun of him for wanting to be a musician. “Where are you going to get a guitar from.” She’d heard them taunting once. They’d never done it again. She’d flown at them with her sandal in her hand. Héctor had stood there, shorter than her then, just a baby, his eyes wide and wet with unshed tears, while the rest rolled around on the floor like worms caught in the midday sun. She had screamed at them that Héctor would have a guitar if it was the last thing she ever did. She would make him one, _cabrons_. 

Her mamá had later washed out her mouth with soap for that word. She hadn’t even known what it meant, just that the people in the plaza used it a lot when they talked to each other. 

She opened her mouth to argue with her papá but the sound of scampering feet behind them made her stop. 

“’Melda!” Héctor skidded to a stop and stared up, up, up at her in her place in her papá’s arms. He had the kind of face only a mamá could love, she’d heard the women saying. Big nose, big ears, big eyes… and then they’d laughed and moved on to other things. Imelda thought she must be a good mamá then because she loved Héctor’s face. His eyes were so big and so brown. He was little and skinny and never seemed to be able to get his arms and legs to work right, like a new-born calf. 

She squirmed a little in her papá’s grip and he lowered her to the ground, keeping hold of her hand. He didn’t seem happy to see Héctor but then no one really was. 

Only her. 

“Hola ‘Melda.” He said, left hand wrapped around his right wrist. “Want to come skip rocks with me?”

She did. She really, really did. She made her eyes big and round, like Óscar did that time he got paint all over Pepita’s tail and they had to shave her. “Can I, Papá?”

Her papá sighed but she felt his hand releasing hers. “Go, Mija. Just…” and he glanced at Héctor quickly before looking back at her. “Be careful, si.” 

She nodded, beaming, and handed him her doll before reaching out to grab Héctor’s hand and drag him towards the place where the river curved and widened. The water there was slow and deep and perfect for skipping rocks. Héctor didn’t have a mamá or papá to look after him, so Imelda would just have to do it instead. 

…

Santa Cecilia, 1907. 

Héctor had a guitar now. A real one that he’d put together from two or three broken, discarded ones he’d found. 

It was three different colours, the back a dark, varnished brown and the front and sides a much paler beige. The neck was white. This was the colour she liked the most. It was almost the same size as him and he slung it over his back like he’d seen the mariachis in the plaza do when they were leaving for the day, wincing as it bounced against his spine with a ‘twang’ with every step. It made Imelda laugh and something big and warm in her chest would expand when she saw how giddy he was to be able to play properly finally. Motherly pride, she decided, listening to him playing scales like he’d been born to do it. 

The people in the plaza laughed at him still, but there was a tinge of fondness there too, and they would pat him on the head, tell him good job, and give him an apple or some candy; once, _Senor_ Dias had even pressed a shiny, new peso into his hand. Héctor had been especially happy that day. 

They still looked at him and her together strangely, but Imelda didn’t care. She couldn’t care. Not when they could escape to their river spot and skim rocks just the two of them, lying on her shawl, faces to the sun, her head on his shoulder while he sang little made up songs. Not real ones, he’d say, not like the mariachi in the plaza sing, just little ones for her. She liked them far more than the real ones but she never told him that. They would eat the candy and fruit that the people had given him that day and listen to the water flow. 

“This one,” Héctor would say as he reached back to throw a stone, “is for my mamá. Wherever she is I wish for her to be safe.” 

His sadness always made her sad too, and she would grasp a stone and throw it with a “For Pepita, may she forgive me for blaming her for the missing chicken this morning.” 

He would laugh then, and the warmth would fill her again. They would scream out more and more ridiculous things as they threw. “May Juanita finally find a hairbrush that is up to the task.” Or “May _Senora_ Rodrigues’ donkey continue to find the strength to carry her.” Until they were both exhausted from laughing and would sit back to enjoy a silence that did not need to be filled up with talk. 

The heat from the sun, coupled with her full belly, would always make her sleepy and she dozed a little, only semi rousing at the feel of gentle fingers threading through her hair. She smiled and slept. 

…

Santa Cecilia, 1912. 

“Hola, Imelda. Fancy meeting you here.” 

Imelda let Héctor’s hand drop and grit her teeth in frustration. All of a sudden, it seemed like Óscar and Felipe were everywhere they went. She saw them in the market, the plaza, they even hung around outside the church waiting for her to come out… and no one hung around church longer than they had to, lest they be roped into helping with the after mass clean up. 

The village talked, and she was old enough now to understand what they meant when they said be careful. She understood the warmth in her chest when Héctor smiled at her and knew it was not the love of a mamá for her child. It was something else, something that carried dangers along with blessings. Something that meant it was wrong for her and Héctor to be alone together. 

Not that he knew this. The _idiota_ still waited for her by the tree every time he could, and it was so easy, too easy, to allow him to pull her away from her chores and lead her to the river bank to sit and talk, play music and sing. She loved the way he would look at her when she sang. 

It didn’t feel wrong. 

She’d thought their spot by the river would be safe but obviously not. Beside her, Héctor looked unsure, glancing back and forth between them all. Her brothers smiled at her, big shark like grins. 

“What do you want?”

“Nothing, Imelda, absolutely –”

“—nothing, can’t a guy just—”

“—enjoy a sunny afternoon in peace?” 

They beamed at her as she fumed. Héctor stood next to her, one wrist held in his hand, unsure. And something inside Imelda snapped. “Are you here to prevent this?” she roared at her brothers, before grabbing Héctor by the lapel of his jacket and spinning him around so fast he nearly fell. There was a ripping sound and she felt the material of his jacket give but then her lips crashed into his and she forgot all about everything for a little while.

He took a step back, and then another, before his arms came up to wrap around her and hold her close. 

When they stopped, her brothers were staring at her horrified, and a little impressed. And Héctor was… 

Starstuck, Imelda thought. But as his mind began to process again, the expression on his face turned from something enraptured, to sheer terror. 

“ _Lo siento_ , Imelda, I…I…” 

He ran. 

…

Santa Cecilia, also 1912. 

Héctor was a hard person to find when he wanted. Imelda had waited for days at their spot, only coming in when the sun was going down. When it became obvious that he wasn’t going to come back there, she spread out to the market; she loitered for hours around the stalls, until they told her to buy something or move on. Óscar and Felipe, either moved by her plight, or eager to see how this train-wreck of a situation played out, helped her in the search, but it didn’t aid her much. Héctor was a spectre around town, avoiding her with ease. 

But that was about to end, she decided one night. 

She tucked her skirt into her underwear and scaled down the trellis outside her window, heading into town and to a certain orphan’s window in the local orphanage. 

Yes, this ended tonight. 

…

There were stones a plenty in the grounds of the orphanage, and she scooped up a handful before locating the window she wanted. Héctor’s room was third from the left, he’d told her, and there were three other boys in there. Wouldn’t want to be them tonight, she thought, as she flicked a stone underhand at the window pane. Years of skipping stones made her aim true, perhaps a little too true, as the sound rang out very loud in the quiet of the night. She held her breath for a moment and then, when nothing happened, she did it again, and again. 

“Imelda?”

And again.

“Ay, Imelda stop.” 

And again. 

" _Idiota_ ,” she whispered at him, her eyes wet with tears. “ _Idiota musico_.” Furious with herself, she scraped the back of her hand across her eyes quickly. “My idiot.” 

“Imelda, I—” he drew his head back into the room to share some words with someone inside. “Wait there a moment,” he said. “Please.” Then he was gone. A minute or two later, the side gate opened, and he sloped out, looking so overly furtive it made her smile though the tears in her eyes still threatened to fall. She made to grab his hand, but something stopped her, some uncertainness that had never been there before. He reached out instead, fingers folding around her own. A slight tug and they were suddenly running, heading out through the town to the banks of the river again where he let her hand go and they were racing. 

Héctor had the longer legs, but she had the passion to win, and she bowled into his back, arms wrapping around him as her force dragged them both to the ground. They toppled end over end for a while before they came to a stop, dizzy and panting, and close – so close. Her clothes would be covered in grass stains, a small part of her mind thought, but then he had closed the distance between them and was kissing her, and she forgot to think about anything at all for a while. 

And this was why he was so dangerous, she realised later. Why people in the plaza would whisper when they saw them both together. Kissing was wrong, so wrong outside of wedlock, and Héctor was so good at it. They lay together looking up at the sky, her head on his shoulder. Until he was sitting, reaching for a stone in the darkness. He hefted it in his hand before lobbing it with a clever flick at the surface of the water. His wish was only a whisper but she still caught it. “I wish I was good enough.” 

Sitting up, she wrapped her arms around him from behind, cocooning him in warmth. She felt his back hitch and knew he was crying. There was little to be gained from telling him he was good enough already. Héctor was nothing if not his own worst critic. She’d lost count of the amount of times he had hurled rocks at the water wishing for his life, his looks, his very being to be different, changed, better. She hummed instead and pressed a soft kiss to the nape of his neck. He turned, reached around and grasped her to him like a desperate man, and perhaps he was, for all that he was still a boy. 

“You won’t run from me again.” It was a demand, an order, not a request, and she knew Héctor understood. 

“No, _mi amor_ , I never will.” 

In the darkness, she smiled. 

…

Santa Cecilia, 1914.

“And then Ernesto said…”

Imelda sighed and shut her eyes against the brightness of the sun. 

“Of course, the dog was feral, so we couldn’t go that way. So Ernesto…”

Was there no end to this torture?

“We nearly fell, but Ernesto…”

_Madre Dios._

“Héctor!” Twisting on the shawl, she propped herself on her hip and looked down at him. His nose was pinking slightly in the sun and his eyes held a sparkle to them that she only ever saw when they looked at her. 

“Si, Imelda.” 

“Shut up and kiss me.” 

A smile on his face told her he knew exactly what he was doing. “Si, Imelda.” 

…

Santa Cecilia, 1917. 

“A dozen eggs, Mamá, is that all?” Imelda grabbed her shawl and threw it around her shoulders, gritting her teeth so hard she was afraid one would splinter. 

“Imelda, wait!”

“I won’t be long.” Where was her basket? Where? Ah, wait, found it. 

“Imelda, listen to me –”

“Back soon.” Imelda seized her basket by the handle and stormed from the house. From inside she could still hear Felipe, or was it Óscar? Darn but those boys even sounded alike, trying to placate Mamá. 

Mamá, who’d got it into her head that it was about damned time her daughter was married and she needed to be foisted off onto one of Santa Celicia’s many, eligible bachelors. Imelda wouldn’t have cared except there seemed to be a desperation to her mamá’s actions. A desperation that grew with every day. Every day that was one day closer to the time that Héctor had said he was returning. 

Ernesto had stolen him.

It was ridiculous to feel that way but she couldn’t help it. He showed up at the orphanage with his charm and musical talent, and Héctor had suddenly fallen in by his side. “He can help me, Imelda. I can help him, we can help each other.” He’d said. She’d scoffed. Who was helping whom here, she threw back at him. Héctor’s songs, the ones he’d always sung to her and her alone, were suddenly all anyone was talking about in the plaza, courtesy of one Ernesto De La Cruz … "oh, and his little sidekick musico, what was his name again? Oh that’s right, _Senor_ Forgettable. He’s not even giving you credit, Héctor, he’s not your friend." Héctor’s face had turned to stone. 

And that had been the last she’d seen of him. 

For two months. 

She hadn’t been lonely though, she thought with spite. Her mamá had made sure of that. So many, many bachelors. Everyone from Aba, who needed his mother to button his jacket every morning, to Xever, who, if the rumours were true, was little more than a dead fish in the bedroom. Not that she was looking for that, mind you, but a little bit of chemistry would go a long way. She’d had them all paraded in front of her… or perhaps it was she who was the paraded one. The little spinster, just desperately looking for a man, any man, to give her life meaning. 

She reached the bend in the road and sped up a little. Once she was around the corner, the house would be nothing but a memory, and the tree, their tree, would be right there. If she lingered under its shade for a while, well, there was no one around to see her. 

Only, this morning, there _was_ someone there. She heard him before she saw him. The fine notes of a guitar floating on the breeze towards her; a song for only the two of them. He was home safely. Home _early_. The relief hit her so hard she almost staggered; it took a supreme effort to pull herself together before he saw the look on her face. 

She reached the tree and passed it, making out that she couldn’t hear the music that was keeping time with her footsteps, her heart. Her head faced forward and her gait neither slowed nor faltered. Just a few more steps and she’d be safe. If she looked, he’d make her forget that she was angry with him. And right now, she had to be angry with him. If she wasn’t angry then… she didn’t know what she was. 

“Imelda.” No. She walked on. And the music stopped for a second before it took up again, travelling now, following her on her route into town. “Imelda, _Mi amor_ … wait.” 

“No, Héctor, not this time.” 

“I need to talk to you.” 

“So talk,” she spit out. “Doesn’t mean I will listen.” 

Behind her, he sighed. “Not like this ‘Melda. Come…” a hand closing over her wrist. Hesitant. “Come skip stones with me?”

Something in her chest squeezed and her breath hitched. Suddenly she was turning, wrenching her arm from his hold and snarling at him. “What happened to never running from me, _musico_?”

He looked wounded, pathetic. A kicked puppy. Good, she thought. He deserved to. 

“I…”

“I wanted you here _cabron, bastardo_.” 

“Imelda…” 

She was furious, boiling over with bile and brimstone, and she wanted nothing more than to unleash herself on him, tear him apart with her bare hands and then slowly, tenderly, piece him together again until he was finally, finally whole and happy. “You want to skip stones?” She dropped her basket where she stood and turned on her heel, heading for the river bank. “Fine, we’ll skip stones.” 

One for every injustice she’d faced since he’d left. 

He’d obviously been here beforehand, she realised as she stomped up the path their feet had worn over the years. At the side of the river bank was a blanket, unfolded and ready for two people to lay, gazing up at the sun. Ha, no chance of that today. At the edge of the water, he’d made a small pile of stones, and she reached down to grab one, rearing back and launching it across the water. “For Abel, who needs a mother more than he needs a wife!” She screamed. 

Héctor was silent and still next to her. She held out her hand and he stared at it in stunned silence for a while before he realised what she wanted and dropped another stone into it. “Carlos, the man who cannot keep his hands to himself at the table.” 

She didn’t wait for Héctor this time and grabbed a stone herself. “Jorje, who doesn’t have a musical bone in his body.” 

“Neron, who is far too short.” 

“Montez, who cannot hold his own wind.” 

“Nicholas, who doesn’t have a funny bone in his body.” 

“Jaime, who is afraid of insects.” 

With every launch she ramped herself up further and further. There was something cathartic in the action, a strange kind of release. Beside her, Héctor was looking panicked. Unsure what kind of beast he had unleashed upon Santa Cecilia. The pile of stones at her feet was getting smaller and smaller until she grasped the last one and suddenly Héctor was moving. 

“Imelda wait—” 

“Héctor, who needs to grow a backbone and stay with the woman who loves him.” She screamed and launched. There was a split second where she registered that the stone she had just thrown was too uniform in shape to be a stone and then Héctor yelped, a high pitched thing, as it bounced only once, before hitting the water again and sinking. 

She stepped back. The fire inside her tempered from this strange reaction. And then he was running to the river. 

“Héctor, what?”

He didn’t stop at the bank but ploughed in, heading for where the stone had sank below the surface. Then a deep breath and he was gone, under. “What?” He surfaced, scraping the wet hair back from his face, took a deep breath and vanished under again before she could even ask him what he thought he was doing. 

And then, slowly, a truly horrible thought passed through her. He surfaced again, looking defeated, and glanced back at her. “You just threw it— I can’t believe you – Ay, two months of savings and you just –” 

She looked from his flushed face and wet hair, ripped her eyes from his chest, where his shirt was clinging and almost see through, to the surface of the water. The mud from below was well and truly stirred up now and looked particularly unappealing. Somewhere under that water was a lifetime of moments, of skipped stones, of wishes made, and – she remembered again the straight edges of the ‘stone’ she’d thrown – there was at least one promise. 

She stood and, without a word, stripped off her dress and stepped out of her boots. Héctor’s eyes, already wide, threatened to fall out of his head as she waded in beside him. She reached out for his hand, smiled and squeezed it. Then dived. 

… 

It took them two hours to find the box. 

It took her three seconds to say yes. 

It took her four years to lose him.

But that’s a whole different story.


End file.
